Summer Searcher Read online

  Summer Searcher

  A Lost Gorge Mystery

  M.K. Dymock

  Elite Edition

  Copyright © 2020 by M.K. Dymock

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Summer Searcher

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  About the Author

  Summer Searcher

  A Lost Gorge Mystery

  When a strange woman stumbles out of the mountains, disheveled and bleeding, begging for help to find a lost child, Sheriff Sol Chapa stops everything to search. Three days later, with no sign the girl even existed, sympathy turns to suspicion, and the woman disappears as quickly as she appeared. Despite all the evidence to the contrary, Sol is haunted by the small chance that he failed.

  Jennifer lies about everything, including her name and her background, but she didn’t lie about the kid. She knows firsthand the terrors the backwoods inflict on the young. With no one left to trust, she searches the wilderness herself.

  Sol can’t shake the feeling he quit too soon.

  Jen won’t give up on the missing girl.

  Neither will survive the search alone.

  1

  On the day an eight-year-old boy went missing in the mountains above Lost Gorge, the best man to find him was three hundred miles away fighting a forest fire.

  Only a few threads of daylight remained by the time Sol Chapa, still reeking of smoke and sweat, arrived at the remote campsite. Making the last turn on the dirt road, his headlights swept from a wall of pines to glare on a hundred people standing around several bonfires. Despite the fun setting of a Fourth of July weekend, not a single person wore a smile and a few openly wept.

  Sol, search and rescue chief, former sheriff, and current part-time deputy would’ve been first on the scene after the initial panicked call from the boy’s parents, but some idiot celebrating the holiday a week early had lit a mountain on fire. Sol, also a volunteer firefighter, had heeded the call.

  The current Lost Gorge sheriff, Clint Gallagher, launched a search but the first day had passed with no success and then the second . . .

  Sol parked his black van, which drove more like a tank with its large mud tires and high clearance, next to a thirty-foot motor home—search and rescue’s mobile headquarters. Clint waited at the RV’s doorway.

  Sol took off his ever-present ball cap and ran his hand through thinning black hair that had been on its way out since high school but had accelerated the last few years. Hitting his forties and the death of his wife almost two years ago had aged him early. He killed the engine, the roaring diesel coming to a silence as he pushed the van door open. “You should’ve called me sooner.”

  “I thought we would find him the first day,” Clint said. “Figured you were more needed at the fire.”

  “There are a few hundred people to fight fires but only me to search.”

  Clint stepped out of the doorway to allow his deputy to slide in to the command center. “Last I checked, we have thirty well-trained volunteers.”

  “And yet here we are.” The door slammed shut behind him.

  Sol had personally trained each member of his team; he knew how good they were. But until he had a way to transfer his instinct into the trainees, he would forever be on call.

  A family reunion had brought a few dozen families to the majestic, yet remote Montana mountain site, which, due to its elevation, only stayed barren of snow a few months per year. Even in July, each summer storm carried the risk of snow.

  The mountains around them stood in rugged defiance to the plains beyond. Their county lines bordered almost ten thousand square miles—bigger than some states. Plenty of folks tended to get lost or hurt, and search and rescue, or SAR, did its best to save each one.

  With a cup of cold coffee and no intention of sleeping, Sol pored over the area maps.

  The myriad of canyons above the campsite concealed a multitude of mines with more entrances than could ever be mapped. The county had done what it could with the popular spots and gated them off. Smaller holes, about the size of a boy, still dotted the cliffs but the closest had to be a few miles away.

  Sol knew these mountains better than most people knew the path between their bed and bathroom, but the mines added a layer of complexity. “Where have you searched so far?”

  Clint sat across from him at the small pullout table. “The first night was spent canvassing the campground here and the lower sites as well. We went down a few trails but didn’t want to risk destroying any track until we had daylight. The second day, we hit it hard but the dogs couldn’t get a good bead on his scent and every trail petered out. We’ve got more volunteers coming up tomorrow—at least a hundred.”

  “Show me the marked maps.” The team would have meticulously marked each searched trail with a timestamp. There were no wasted efforts. Sol ran down each line, mentally removing them from his own plans. “What about the mines?”

  “Every entrance we’ve found so far is still locked. I’ve sent for the state’s experts, but they haven’t arrived yet.” Clint slumped in his seat. His freckles made him look younger than thirty-five, but the weight of the job had slowed his usual ready smile. He’d held the office of sheriff for less than a year. Sol felt no regret at relinquishing the position to the long-serving deputy. At the time, Clint had taken the mantle with eagerness.

  “You might as well get some sleep. Nothing to be done before dawn,” Sol said.

  Clint stared at the maps as if they would tell him something new. “The parents aren’t sleeping.”

  Above them, a long rumble of thunder rolled its way across the sky. Sol prayed without faith that the storm would take pity on the missing boy, Benjamin, and pass them by. His fingers h
overed over the topographical map, showing the elevation gains. Clint stood, but before he could walk away, Sol’s finger jabbed the map. “He’s here. Probably up one of three draws. I’ll head out at dawn.”

  Clint wouldn’t question Sol’s assertion. He’d found others without taking a step outside. “Do you want to take some of the crew with you?” His resigned tone held no expectation of a yes.

  “No, I’ll go alone. I don’t want to chance anyone stomping over tracks.” He looked up and a rare smile crossed his face. “I’ll have him back by lunch.”

  2

  Jennifer stood next to one of the bonfires—in the group but not part of it. She recognized Chapa’s van immediately from the last search she’d been a part of. As the headlights shined on her, she turned away and faced the flames.

  Her body tensed as he jumped out, his long legs landing in a puddle, and she waited for him to approach the group. The parents of the missing boy sat huddled not far from her. He would want to speak with them, question them. The slamming of the motorhome door proved her assumptions wrong.

  Relief flooded her. She’d met Sol Chapa once at another search that hadn’t ended well. In fact, it had almost ended in her arrest—an event she was not eager to repeat.

  Coming here and chancing being recognized was foolhardy and risky. Two adjectives that described much of her previous ten years.

  A man next to her shivering in shorts and a t-shirt offered a quiet smile. “I didn’t catch your name. Which part of the family do you come from?”

  Family of the missing outnumbered searchers, most of whom had gone home or retired to tents for the night. “Oh, we’re the black sheep.”

  He chuckled before glancing around in shame and lowering his voice. “I thought that was us.” His light tone meant he must be a more distant relative to the boy.

  “Not even close. I should go check on my lambs.” She retreated before he could ask anything else. She wanted information about the search but not attention.

  A few drops of rain fell on her jacket, and she pulled the hood up over her head. Had coming here been a mistake? If so, she refused to admit it just yet.

  She’d been a hundred miles away when she’d heard about the missing child. At first, she’d ignored her internal compass pointing her back to Lost Gorge—after all, what did this kid have to do with her? Despite her best intentions, a day later found her out on the highway thumbing a ride to the mountains she’d spent years running away from. The missing kid had nothing to do with her. But she’d once been a child, too, in those forests, desperate to go home.

  That wasn’t the real reason she’d come. She risked everything on the off chance the searchers would find something beyond the kid. Something that would help her in her own search—a slim chance to be sure.

  She did learn one thing around the campfire that night. Everyone thought the caves were too far away and too high of a climb for an eight-year-old. She knew differently. And a boy on an adventure might stumble into something he shouldn’t.

  Let Chapa and everyone else search the forests—she would go underground.

  3

  Sol Chapa was born with a different first name, but being the first son after four daughters lent him the nickname Solo Veno—Spanish for “he came alone.” The moniker, granted by his grandfather, stuck despite his mother’s protests. Sol proved a far more fitting attribution to the boy who preferred a mile between him and civilization.

  The instant the storm let up—or at least became less drowning, Sol abandoned the warmth and light of the motorhome. He expected his first step to be in deep mud, but the surface had frozen, and he walked on solid ground. The storm must’ve dropped the temperature a good thirty degrees. His breath crystalized before vanishing, and rain turned to sleet.

  Sol’s faith in his ability to bring Ben home safe took a big hit. While he knew he still had a chance to find him, the unforgiving cold made it more a possible recovery than a rescue. He’d brought down a dead child once before and had sworn never to do it again.

  “The mom said Benjamin is pretty active and adventuresome, plays on an elite soccer team,” Clint had said the night before. “Whatever distance you’re thinking, add to it.”

  That consideration didn’t change his plans, only cemented them. Sol jogged on and off the first two miles up the main mountain trail that ran along an engorged creek. The storm and the melted snow from above put the rushing rapids beyond dangerous. If Ben had stopped to play in the water, they would not find him. Most of the attention of the previous two days had been spent in this vicinity. The children playing with Ben that day swore they’d heeded their parents’ warnings and stayed away from the water.

  At the end of the trail, and five hundred feet above the campground, the creek shrank into several streams pouring out of a series of canyons. It was that location Sol had marked on the map, and it was there his real search would begin.

  Stories had been told about the old mines with their legends of silver and adventure around the campfire that weekend. Ben might set out to find them. But what he wouldn’t know was the uneven terrain, the small canyons and their fast-moving creeks, and the almost-vertical climb at the end. He would not understand how far away they were and how impossible it would be for him to reach them alone.

  Out of the many canyons leading that direction, Sol would focus on three of the most likely. They were less overgrown and steep than their counterparts. Rain would’ve wiped out much of the track, but Sol knew how to look for traces beyond footprints. Broken branches, scuff marks on rocks, and disturbances in the dirt would signal the presence of a human.

  The first canyon held none of these, and no one answered his yells or his whistle. At its opening, Sol stopped and pulled out his map and a compass. After a moment of contemplation, he drew a small X. The mark meant this canyon would not be searched again.

  If he missed any sign, if Ben was there and Sol didn’t see him, that X would mark his grave.

  He drew with thick, dark lines, confident the ravine was clear.

  The third and smallest canyon narrowed to the width of the stream, forcing Sol to climb up the side where the rock was still slick with rain. He pulled himself up onto an outcropping thick with soil and bright green grass and enough room to stand. Before he could stand, Sol spotted the first trace. A step had pushed down the grass into the black dirt.

  His stiff and cold fingers formed a fist that he used to punch the air. He was right; he knew it.

  He pushed down the adrenaline to focus on the ground. Kneeling beside it, he examined its contours and shape. The celebration leaked out of him, and he released his fist, letting his fingers hang at his side. The track was larger than Ben’s and had the imprint of a hiking boot—not running shoes. Who else could it be? The impassability of this canyon and its remoteness would make it an unlikely spot for people. Maybe a hunter? No, too soon for them.

  The grass would’ve started growing again had the track been old. Which meant that, while a hundred people below screamed out the name of a missing child, someone was here crawling through the canyon.

  Then Sol remembered the ghost—a fugitive they’d chased through these mountains for several years without a single sighting.

  His confidence faltered. A missing child he could find, but a taken one . . . He continued up the narrow way. Large pine trees lined the edges of the high rock walls, making it deeper and darker and a whole lot harder to search for the next sign.

  The canyon opened up more the farther back he trudged, but the creek filled most of the empty space with tall bushes growing along either side. He slipped off his pack while reaching for his machete. He’d sacrifice the leave-no-trace mantra for the greater good.

  He undid the snap on the machete’s holster, but his cold fingers fumbled the tool. He jumped back as the sharp blade hit the ground. “That’s a good way to lose a toe,” he muttered. Sol did not allow for mistakes, least of all his own.

  He bent down to retrieve it, his hand free
zing in place over the ground. There, as if someone had carved it out, lay a small sneaker shoe print.

  4

  Jennifer kept the hood of her jacket pulled over her ball cap throughout the morning—but so did everyone else. Faces were indiscernible in the cold morning air. Summer, everyone muttered sarcastically at least once, as they stood in line for hot coffee at the command motorhome.

  Chapa must’ve gone off earlier, as he was nowhere to be seen, and she relaxed slightly. She would never be completely at ease with other people around, but he made her especially anxious.

  She stood close to the new sheriff, a man she was familiar with but hopefully not enough that he’d recognize her, as he talked to a deputy. “I want the caves searched.”

  “The entrances that haven’t been filled are locked, and the state controls access,” said the deputy, a black-haired woman who looked around thirty, about the same age as Jen.